pity. party of one

I realized something unpleasant about myself this week.

I have been living in fear since my back surgery a year ago.

I've been convinced I am doing as much as I can.

Physically progressing slowly, but surely.

Week by week.

Month by month I can tell a big difference.

But Monday some truth slapped me in the face.

Brutally.

I was trying to enjoy reading a book on the back porch but I kept getting distracted until I was focused only on the grapevine on the ground along the fence that was no longer, at my request, hugging and overtaking the chainlink that divides my yard and the business next door's parking lot. 

It's a vine that came down a month ago when two of my soccer boys were kind enough to come and work on my lawn for me. I thanked God for their work that day and for days after. Especially thankful that it was no longer something to wrestle when people mow. 

In the last few weeks my thoughts about the vine had morphed. Monday evening they were less than lovely.

I saw the brown, dead vine, the grass and weeds filling the empty spaces and the simmering resentfulness I've been unconsciously harboring because I hadn't been able to cut it down and tear it off like I did a few years ago began to boil. 

I was consumed by what I couldn't do. 

I was discouraged. 

I was angry. 

I was frustrated. 

It was trash night and I knew that debris would still be laying there Tuesday morning. And Wednesday morning and every morning and day and night after.

I was in the middle of a major pity party.

Then I heard a whisper of truth.

I have clippers. 

I have saved my 44-50 pound dog food bags after they are emptied into the crocks I store the food in because they don't tear when you fill them with clippings of roses, raspberry canes or vines. And I have a stool.

If I was willing to change the way I have done things in the past, if I was willing to attack the work with what I can do, even if I couldn't finish the job, I could make a dent in the eyesore. 

This is the result:

Four bags of clippings and a bundle of large vines. 

As I look at the cleaned up fence line I'm reminded that I can do hard things. (And it's okay  to admit that things that used to be easy, aren't.) I may have to change how I work, and what I used to do in a day may take me a week, spread over a month's time, and I may need help, but no more excuses and groveling before the idol of what was. There is still so much I can do.

Pity party over.